


Unready Reserves

by mackiedockie



Category: Captain America (Movies), Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander: The Series, Iron Man (Movies), Iron Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Comics/Movie Crossover, Community: hlh_shortcuts, Crossover, Gen, Highlander Holiday Short Cuts Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:10:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackiedockie/pseuds/mackiedockie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe Dawson drops in to consult Methos in New York.  In the shadow of Grand Central Station and Stark Tower, they settle down for a quiet little brunch to catch up.  What could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unready Reserves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merriman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merriman/gifts).



> Author's Notes/Warnings: Set during the Avengers movie, a vague couple of decades after HL: the Series. Ignores the HL movies. May contain hints and/or spoilers to the Avengers film. Caveat lector. Rated C for Crackitude. 
> 
> There is a guest appearance from a canon Highlander, but not the one you think.
> 
> Thank you Beta Readers adabsolutely and dragonfly--you are indefatigable and amazing, and this would never have been finished without you (but the errors are mine! All Mine!)

Just a block from Grand Central Station, Methos strolled through the sidewalk tables of the Central Cafe and called out to a busy waitress, “Innkeeper! I require victuals and viands, and the finest of wine and ale, for I have travelled far on my quest!”

“82nd Street is far?” Joe looked up from a table for two with a knowing smile, shutting down his laptop. “From Park Avenue? For me, maybe, but I bet you cheated by taking the subway. Now pipe down, this is a respectable restaurant. I’ve got the bill to prove it.”

“Welcome to New York, Joe. To what do I owe the honor of your secret bat signal? And why didn’t you come straight to the apartment? Don’t tell me it’s Plan B time. I didn’t pack my toothbrush.”

“Relax, it’s just a consult. No reason to wake you up at the crack of dawn. Plane got in late,” Joe said with a dismissive wave, repressing a yawn. “Some emergency on the ground threw off all my connections. Besides, something’s come up that requires a bit of sneakiness, and I didn’t think knocking on your front door qualified as stealthy.”

“It must be sneaky, if you didn’t bring MacLeod,” Methos murmured.

“He’s fine, just taking a little sabbatical on the island,” Joe answered Methos’ unspoken question. “No phone, no pool, no pet Watchers.” 

“I take it you didn’t tell him you were going AWOL to make mischief with me?” Methos stretched out his legs and relaxed.

Joe smiled, and settled a little more comfortably in his chair as well. “He’s just not in a cunning mood right now.”

“Is he ever? Wait. Are you calling me a cunning sneak?” Methos asked, flattered. “Said the pot to the kettle. I love watching you do furtive.”

“It always pays to work with professionals," Joe acknowledged. “Brings out my best work.”

“I and my cunning are intrigued. Tell us everything.”

Joe flipped open his laptop, and summoned up a series of pictures of an icefield, an enormous wing, and a rescue crew carrying a covered litter. “You remember when the news reported about the frozen supersoldier from World War II that was found up off Greenland?”

“That rumor they found the original Captain America?” Methos asked, eyes narrowing as he perused the grainy photos. “Too absurd to be true. Hoaxes thrive on wishful thinking.”

“That’s what I thought.” Joe clicked to the last picture in the album. “Until headquarters sent me this new photo.” He made a side to side comparison--a vintage WWII shot of the iconic hero next to his identical double, standing on an avenue in Brooklyn. The man in the old print was confident, determined, leading a proud group of men. The same man in modern civilian clothes was alone, looking bemused, and a bit lost.

“Alive?” Methos narrowed his eyes, looking for signs of photoshopping. “Captain America? Immortal? Ridiculous. Scientists swarmed all over him in the forties. So did the Watchers. They classified him as an experimental fluke. A Frankensoldier.”

Joe winced. “Yet there he is. Not a year older, by the looks of it.”

“Why show me this, Joe?” Methos tapped the newer photo. “Do you want me to go to Brooklyn, knock on his door and ask how Immortal he is?”

“No. No! Definitely not,” Joe denied quickly. “It’s just a little worrying, having this guy with a high profile resurrection in government hands, you know? It gets a lot of people asking questions we don’t want answered, comparing notes we’d rather bury.”

Methos saw a slight tic in Joe’s cheek, but no sign of the look that signaled he was trying to wrap himself around a full blown lie. “Ah. I see. You’re the one who is going to go knock on his door in Brooklyn. Speaking of asking dangerous questions that certain people don’t want answered. I bet you even read his comics growing up.”

“Who didn’t?” Joe shrugged, and the tic disappeared. “I’ll probably just surveil. Nothing dangerous in some good old fashioned Watching.”

“Famous last words, I recognize them a mile off. You’re a senior watcher, Joe. The Seniorest Watcher I know. The oldest living field agent.”

“Gee, thanks,” Joe conceded less than gracefully. “I get the picture.”

“The point is, you don’t get assigned to lurk on streetcorners, even for Captain America. Someone is trying to put one over on you.”

“Mike in Security called it in,” Joe said. “He just wanted someone with experience in the unusual to check it out. Now that I say that out loud, it sounds thin to me, too. Still, Mike’s not prone to practical jokes.” 

“He’s not prone to telling you the whole story, either, speaking of sneaky,” Methos warned. “And I don’t remember him doing you any favors in the past,” he added, reading the file notes with a thoughtful frown. “Icy combat to the death, a hero buried with his ship, all quite grim and epically Norse. I wonder if this has something to do with Loki.”

“Loki who?” Joe asked as he reached for his coffee. Methos took advantage of the distraction to steal control of the laptop. Joe retained control long enough to hit the logout on his facebook page, but it was a near thing.

“ ‘The’ Loki. One of Odin’s lot. Norse god of mischief? I know you’re up on the sagas, Joe. Some of them are watcher writ. Freya, Heimdall, Thor. Quite the quaffer, Thor. Still. Back to Loki, speaking of the dead rising from the mists of time. Saw him just this morning.”

“Come on, Loki? There is no such dude.” 

“I swear by Odin’s oath, it’s true! Speaking of surveilling, one of your more enterprising Watchers managed to tap into footage of some sort of secret lab imploding upstate. Probably the same emergency that delayed your flight. And there was the Trickster, escaping in the back of a pickup.”

“There is no way you are not pulling my chain about this,” Joe said, searching Methos’ face for a sly smile. And there it was. As usual, it was completely nondiagnostic when it came to truth or fairy tales.

“He probably mistook it for a chariot, and was too embarrassed to backtrack and commandeer a bucket seat, by the expression on his face. I do believe he bruised his dignity. Here, I’ll download it for your unending amusement.” 

“Great. I’ll probably get some sort of Midgard worm crawling around my harddrive.” Joe craned his neck to get a look at his notifications. “I don’t see any local New York updates.”

“Who said it was local? Very hush-hush, bounced straight to Lyons.” 

“And you know this because...?” 

Methos slid the laptop back to Joe. “The very same enterprising but unfortunate Watcher managed to upload the footage of the collapsing lab to Lyons before he disappeared into said hole. Lyons backed up the files to the new green servers in Ayureki.”

“And you have a back door to Ayureki.” Joe didn’t even bother to make it a question.

“Doesn’t everybody?” 

“Cyber-showoff.” Joe shifted gears. “Seriously. These guys are just a wild group of Immortal Vikings, right? ‘Thor, God of Thunder’, my ass. Seeing is not believing these days...” Joe’s rant trailed off as the footage finished buffering. “Are those horns?”

“Symbolizes the auroch, Odin’s gift to Loki, to remind him to stay bullish on Asgard.” Methos said, tracing a hornlike rune in the condensation on the table, then wiping it away. “Think of it as half of the Asgardian royal family crest,” Methos said. “Thor’s dress helmet has some styling raven wings. Daddy always liked him best.”

“When did you meet Odin?” Joe managed to get out with a straight face.

“Odin the Allseeing Allfather?” Methos checked Joe’s expression suspiciously. “Never met him. Just the kids. I was repenting my sins and inventing new ones with the Irish monks a few years after St. Patrick drove out the Snapes,” Methos got the glazed-eye look of an Immortal looking back into the well of memories.

“Don’t you mean ‘the snakes?’ “ Joe corrected.

Methos shook his head. “That’s another tale. Don’t derail me. Anyway. Ireland. Asgard. Odin, in all his wisdom, decided to send the youngsters to Midgard to expand their horizons. They were probably getting on his last nerve.”

“Teenager godlings?” Joe scoffed. “Sent off to boarding school?”

“Perspicacious as always, Joe,” Methos complimented, putting Joe further on guard as the story continued. “Thor, as any bright young Norseman of his day, went a-Viking, sailed up the Liffey and lay siege to the abbey, Loki trailing in his considerable shadow. Thor conquered, and Loki cleaned up as Thor celebrated.”

“Then maybe I should be tracking him down for the Chronicles instead of Captain America,” Joe ventured, intrigued.

“Best avoid Loki, Joe. I did. Let’s just say he’s ‘not our kind’ and leave it at that. I won’t go into details, but it was one of those ‘worship, slave, or die’ situations. I ended up busboy to the gods for a few months. Quite the quaffer, Thor,” Methos hinted again, staring at his half-filled mug. “Did I mention that?”

“You did,” Joe sighed, and tried to signal the waitress for another round, but she was gazing up into the sky. “Hey, what’s that?” he asked, pointing at a contrail jetting off the Stark Tower. “Is that the trustfund nutjob with the jetpack?”

“It’s New York, Joe. Don’t look up, people will think you’re a tourist.”

“Looks like fun, really,” Joe said wistfully. 

The screech of brakes and the blare of car horns drew their attention to a sudden snarl of black SUVs on the elevated street above the cafe. “What’s your plan B, again?” Joe inquired, quietly shutting down his computer and picking up his cane.

“Same as usual. Run like hell.” Methos followed his gaze and stood, angling between Joe and the street. “Those look like the same government cars that were in the lab footage, chasing Loki, evacuating from the disaster.” 

“Black vehicles filled with men in black? Funny.” Joe’s expression was anything but amused, as a very serious looking posse started to form a perimeter. “They aren’t advancing. Waiting for reinforcements? Overkill, if you ask me.”

“They may have traced the download to your wifi address here,” Methos said sharply. “Up, Joe, we need to get out of here.”

“No. They came too quickly. Somebody knew we were meeting, and used me to draw you in." Joe tapped the breast pocket of his coat, where he kept his wallet. "That’s on my bill. I pay.”

“Come on, Joe. Out the kitchen, up the alley, hail a cab...”

“I don’t do ‘run’. It’s Plan A for me.”

“Do nothing?” Methos narrowed his eyes. “You are absolutely forbidden to get yourself shot again. Give me your gun.”

“What gun? This is Manhattan. I don’t have a carry permit in New York.”

“Then Plan A really does mean ‘nothing.’ I’ve taught you well.“

“Well, that, and a little bullshit goes a long way, too. Wish me luck, sensei.” Joe stood up straight and jammed his laptop into Methos’ hands and the Iphone into his friend's pocket. “Ditch these somewhere permanent. And down the line...quaff one for me.”

“I’ll meet you back here, right here, in two days. Be here. Or I’ll raise new Horsemen to come after you,” Methos said, his voice low and fierce and not quite civilized. And then he was gone.

Outwardly calm, Joe drew out his wallet and dropped a bill on the table for the waitress, and then made his way to the sidewalk, just as another black SUV pulled up and disgorged four agents. Three pelted past him after Methos’ rapidly cooling trail, while the fourth straightened his tie and politely held out his hand.

“Mr. Dawson, I’m Agent Coulson, of SHIELD. I’ve come to extend you an invitation to meet with Colonel Fury.”

*********

“She’s called the _Argus_ ,” Coulson announced proudly when they landed.

Colonel Fury’s headquarters wasn’t quite what Joe expected--an aircraft carrier seemed like an unlikely command post for an Army man, spymaster or no. Agent Coulson was not what he expected, either. The kidnapping was one of the most genial abductions that Joe had ever experienced in his long and checkered career. 

That is, if he left out the hour long ride in the black helicopter. His belly was only just settling as he was escorted from the flight deck, and his appreciation of Coulson’s hints about the carrier’s advanced capabilities left something to be desired. After all, oddly shaped as it was, it was still just a glorified jet hangar and troop transport, and Navy territory. Joe’s experiences in Vietnam had not endeared him to helicopters or aircraft carriers.

Coulson’s promotional tour continued inside through a dark warren of metal catwalks. “So this is where the rest of my taxes go,” Joe growled, unimpressed. Agent Coulson waited solicitously while he clumped up some metal stairs. “Guardrails could use some paint. And the acoustics suck.” There were some remarkably open gangways. “Where are the watertight doors?”

“The new design cuts back on weight,” Coulson explained without explaining, irritatingly amiable. “All recycled material from the Naval Shipyards or brand new Stark Technology. Where we’re not gray, we’re green.” 

“As long as it’s not glowing. I’ve heard about the nuclear Navy.”

Coulson showed Joe into a clean white room with a bunk, a table, and a laptop almost identical to his own. It also had a heavy door that looked remarkably watertight. “I’ll be back soon. Here’s some paperwork for you to sign. And waivers, of course,” Coulson said apologetically.

“Waivers?” Joe read down through the first sheet, then paged quickly through the rest. “Are you out of your minds? This is a call up notice.”

“Your file said you would be quick on the uptake, Lance Corporal Dawson,” Colonel Fury entered in a swirl of polished leather and menace, and waved Coulson out. “For a Marine,” he added, with just a shade of Army attitude.

“You’re going to _draft_ me?” Joe asked, appalled. “You can’t do that!”

“Once a Marine, always a Marine,” Fury smiled, all teeth. “The Emergency Powers Act says I can call on intelligence assets through the Individual Ready Reserve. Consider yourself called to duty.”

“I’m not in the Reserves,” Joe said with a desperate stab at logic.

“But you are a Watcher. That makes you an intelligence asset,” Fury said calmly. “And you are a Marine. The Marines don’t take back the oath on discharge. When there’s need, they serve. And we need you.” 

Joe tried a more practical and obvious observation. “Why me? I’m too old for this shit.” 

“Not nearly old enough to impress me,” Fury grinned. “Methos, your friend now, he’s impressive. And still leading my agents on a merry chase. But they’ll catch up eventually. They aways do.”

Joe clamped his jaw shut, and quickly reviewed his conversation with Methos. He hadn’t said his name. Not once. He rarely did, at least not in public. The implication that Fury might know that Methos was not only Immortal, but the oldest Immortal, made his blood run cold. Joe had spent half his career hiding Methos’ real identity from the Watchers. There were less than a handful of people who knew his true name. Weighing his options and considering the candidates, he let the silence stretch.

“I can call them off,” Fury finally volunteered, clearly peeved at Dawson’s lack of response, and apparently pressed for time.

Making a snap decision, Joe stared Fury in the eye. “You call them off, and I sign.”

“Done.” Fury reached across the table and pointed at the top document. “Here. And here.”

“And then what, Fury?” Joe ask, scrawling his name angrily.

“That’s Colonel Fury to you, Marine,” Fury corrected. “Then what? Then you follow orders. I don’t think you’re too old to remember how that works.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s coming back to me now,” Joe snapped back, uncowed. “So what are my orders?”

Fury took a folder from his jacket. “You and your Watchers got into this mess by accessing eyes-only SHIELD files. And I will find that leak. We’ve tolerated the Watchers until now because our missions do not conflict. Make no mistake, that can change. But right now, I need your network to do what it does best. Locate, observe, and report. Find one person for me, and we’re done. He’s dangerous, has killed before, will kill again. You can help stop him.”

“Let me guess. Loki.”

Colonel Fury took a step forward and slapped down the folder in front of Joe, looming, his face hardening in suspicion. “That name was not in the material I tracked to you.”

“Just a lucky guess. I did a little research into why my plane was delayed. You never know what you might find on You Tube.” A little looming didn’t faze Joe after twenty years of watching MacLeod. “And Google is a grand invention, Colonel Fury, sir!” He snapped to attention and delivered a rusty salute that went three steps over the line of insubordination to cover the inner relief he felt. Fury was tracking the Captain America download, not Methos’ footage of Loki. That made Methos a lever to guarantee Joe’s behavior, not a target himself.

“You’d better hope you stay lucky. Find him. Then we’ll talk about reclassifying the Watchers as an eccentric social club. Find him quickly, and we’ll talk about mislaying your recruiting papers.”

“Maybe someone in your organization is playing both ends against the middle,” Joe said in a lower, more reasoning tone. “Do you know anyone who might want SHIELD to take down the Watchers?” 

“Or use the Watchers to spy on SHIELD?” Fury turned the question around, making it sound like an accusation. “You’ve got your assignment. Find Loki.” With that final order, Fury gathered up the forms and swept out of the room, the leather jacket trailing like a cape. The door shut with a nautical clang.

Joe took a deep breath and tried to relax, all too conscious he was probably being watched. He was fairly sure that Fury was gaslighting him about how much he knew about Watchers and Immortals, but his threat had teeth. The Watchers did not need SHIELD as an enemy.

Joe’s shoulders and back remained locked in long forgotten military knots even as his anger ebbed and anxiety grew. Finally, he settled wearily at the table and flipped open the laptop. It was loaded. FBI, Interpol, facial recognition software, webcams worldwide. 

He could start with some dangerous Immortal alerts, add some hunter warnings, issue the Watcher equivalent of a worldwide all points bulletin. He could, but it would betray every Watcher asset to Shield across the globe. 

For a very long time, he didn’t touch a key.

**********

Methos ended up hopping cabs all the way to New Jersey, where he owned a modest-but-profitable gambling establishment under one of the few names that he had forgotten to share with Joe over the years. He found the owner’s suite to be tidy and empty, but not too clean for comfort. His library, taking up an entire wall of the suite, appeared undisturbed, and just dusty enough, as he’d left it last.

The hot tub had been recently used, which pleased him, because he didn’t really trust employees who didn’t take reasonable advantage of available perks when the boss was gone. They tended to be less invested in their jobs, and less likely to protect his overall interests. Particularly, his privacy.

Methos parted the curtains and surveyed the street and the sky. No black cars. No black helicopters, either. And as far as he could determine, no camouflaged drones. Privacy was getting to be hard work to maintain, these days.

He’d turned off Joe’s Iphone and disabled the GPS. The laptop had been regretfully consigned to the Hudson River. However, the hard drive still weighed down a pocket in his coat. He drew it out and plucked a modern translation of Herodotus from the shelves. He’d hollowed it out in a fit of pique at the translator--the harddrive fit perfectly. 

Joe’s latest work, safely stashed. Methos refused to entertain the possibility it might be his last.

Then, using the dedicated and shielded house phone, he dialed Amanda. Unpredictably, she answered.

“You rang?” she said in a deep voice, before breaking into a light laugh. “It’s been ages!”

“When can you free your schedule? I have a caldarium and a room with a view of the Stark Tower.” He didn’t give his current name, she didn’t ask.

“Intriguing, as always, dear friend. I’ve always wanted to survey the Tower. It’s gleaming marble, it’s shining alabaster...”

“I may have a job for you that requires your special talents.”

Amanda became all business. “A professional extraction?”

“Professional, and personal, for both of us. We have a musician-sized hole in our lives. He’s been ushered away. We may have to spirit him back.”

“From the Stark Tower?” Amanda asked, clearly warming to the task.

“From SHIELD,” Methos replied apologetically.

“Oh. Dear. Someone has abandoned a good deal of common sense.”

“I’ll be happy if you can tell that to Joe in person,” Methos said tersely.

“I wasn’t talking about Joe,” Amanda warned.

“When can you come?” Methos asked, refusing to be insulted.

“Two days, if I stay off the grid. I won’t be able to use the usual connections out of Malta, I’m afraid.” Amanda was in Europe. That was inconvenient.

“Stay off the grid, by all means,” Methos advised. “If he doesn’t show up in two days, I’ll know where he isn’t, and have a very good idea where he might be.”

“Any hints?”

“Pack your parachute. In fact, pack two.”

**********

There weren’t any clocks in the room, and the men in black had taken Joe’s watch and wallet and other loose possessions. There was even an app that had frozen time on the computer, which Joe found slightly creepy. The interval was long enough to hit the narrow rack for a long session of staring at the overhead before the opening door roused him. He only had a vague idea of how much time had passed before Agent Coulson returned to the room carrying a thermos of coffee, two cups and a sandwich.

“Colonel Fury is very irked with your lack of progress,” Coulson said sadly, sounding deeply disappointed himself. “We had high hopes that your sense of duty and Marine oath would override your conflicting career...interests.”

Joe pushed himself to his feet, wincing. The prostheses had been on too long, and he’d pay for that later. Business came first. Beckoning to Coulson to look over his shoulder, he opened the laptop and navigated to Twitter. Logging in on his cover WorldWatch account, he sent a quick tweet: “@SeeingEyeMike: I know who you are and I see what you did-tell me where I find L, or #tribune takes charge. You are unShielded. Resp 5 minutes.”

“Twitter? Seriously?” Agent Coulson asked, appalled.

“It’s easy to hide information in a firehose full of data like Twitter. Normally the code would be more opaque, but you wanted a quick response.” Joe poured himself some coffee, and offered a cup to Coulson, who accepted gratefully. They shared the sandwich while they waited, and pried information out of each other.

“Why wait til now? You could have tweeted hours ago.”

“It’s no fun working miracles without an audience,” Joe said, with what he hoped was a mysterious smile. “Besides, it took me a while to figure all the angles.”

“How did you figure out that Mike was our agent in the Watchers?” Coulson asked, professionally intrigued.

“Process of elimination. That, and the fact he’s jammed me up before. Ancient history now. That’s what’s wrong with recruiting double agents. It’s so easy for them to turn again, and again, until they triple down. Information becomes currency, to be traded, rather than the goal of a mission, to be accomplished.”

Joe’s eyes swept his twitter notices as they spoke. The #WorldWatch hashtag had gone almost silent after Joe ran the #tribune alarm up the twitter flagpole. The Watchers were spooked. They should be.

“What if he doesn’t answer?” Coulson sounded worried.

“Then I expose him as a SHIELD snitch and he exposes me as the interfering busybody that I am. Then we’re both burned for no return, aren’t we?” Joe said. “We’ll both be locked out of the Watcher network, and they withdraw and retrench. Even if he does answer, I’ll have to come up with a hell of a cover story down the line for the tribune. Not that Fury’s factoring that into the equation.”

“Colonel Fury is protective of all his agents,” Coulson said definitively, not necessarily understanding the tribune reference, but catching the whiff of underlying risk.

“You’re an optimist. Amazing, in your line of work.” Joe leaned back to take a longer look at the agent. He felt an irrational urge to bask in the reflected warmth of the man’s hero worship for Nick Fury.

“I try to maintain a positive attitude. You must as well, to take this kind of chance. For instance, what if this Mike decides to give his information to Fury directly, and denounces you on an open twitter link? You’d be discredited in both organizations.”

“It all depends on whether or not he’s more scared of me and my friends, or of you and your friends. Want to put a ten spot on it?”

“I’d feel guilty about taking your money. But I would live. You’re on.” Coulson glanced at his watch, and then announced, “Thirty seconds left.”

As the count hit ten seconds, Joe shrugged. “Unlucky at love and gambling. Story of my life. You’ll have to get my wallet back from the guards in order to be paid.”

With 2 seconds left, a tweet blossomed on the screen. “@BluesManGroup: hold fast. Herculean task in Stuttgart. Repeat. Stuttgart. L flying Lernaean charter. Beware the last head.”

Letting out a pent-up breath, Joe squinted at the screen. “Stuttgart. Okay. That’s a long way from upstate New York, but not impossible. Still, you must have the major airports covered.”

Coulson took over the laptop, tapping keys at a furious rate. “I’m tripling the eyes on Stuttgart, and putting it at the top of our list of possibilities. This time I’m putting my money on you, Joe,” he said, flashing a grin and sliding over a ten dollar bill.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Joe said dryly. “Maybe I can use it to wangle a weekend leave.”

Then a cloud eclipsed Coulson’s enthusiasm. “No such charter as Lernaean Air to or from the eastern seaboard. Or out of Germany.”

“Huh. Not surprising. It’s probably a hint, not a proper name. You know in my file where it says ‘historian?’ That’s not a cover. It’s a job description. And we’re all drilled in the Classics, including Greek and Roman myths. Immortals are very...mythic. Like your Loki, for instance. Trickster. Shapeshifter. Larger than life, with a hint of magic.”

“What does Lernaean Air stand for? Will it change our search grid?”

“I have no idea,” Joe confessed honestly, to both questions. “Hercules was tasked with twelve labors--during the second, he had to go to a lake called Lerna and slay the poisonous beast that guarded the gates of the Underworld. It’s also known as the Lernaean Hydra. As far as I know, it didn’t fly. It had a lot of heads, if that helps.”

Coulson paled. “It helps.” He grabbed the laptop, slammed it closed and pelted for the door. A belated “Thanks!” floated after him as the door closed with disturbing note of permanency.

“You’re welcome,” Joe said for the benefit of hidden cameras. Then he pushed his way over to the narrow bunk, eased out of his prostheses, turned his back on the room, and shut his eyes. If there was one thing he remembered from his first time in the Marines, it was the fact that there was never, ever, enough time to sleep.

Still, one thought kept sleep at bay for a long time. “Beware the last head”, the last line Mike had sent. According to myth, the last head of the Hydra was immortal.

********

Methos plotted his next move on the theory that nobody would be looking for him in the places that they had already searched. Travelling back into Manhattan on a motorcycle in a dark helmet with leather leggings and coat, he haunted the buildings overlooking the Central Cafe until he found an empty apartment over a competing restaurant across and down the street. 

He bought a burner phone to check Joe’s bat signal, accessing his anonymous dropbox decorated with a .gif of Gotham City. There was the old fashioned searchlight bat signal, the urban noir landscape, even a little signpost that proclaimed “To the Batcave”. Methos amused himself by uploading a mildly scandalous drawing of Robin in a moonlit alley gazing soulfully at the bat signal. Mild by Methos’ standards, anyway. 

Twenty four hours, then Methos’ arbitrary grace period would elapse. If Joe wasn’t released by then, Methos would execute his own version of an old-fashioned writ of habeus corpus. And then the wild hunt would begin.

He threw open the grimy window to air the garlicky smell in the apartment. Then he rapidly shut it, as the restaurant fan below blew oily kitchen smoke upward into his face. Throughout the night the spicy smell of roasting goat permeated the air, tickling his memories, as he carefully sharpened his sword.

*******

Sleep turned out to be more of a theory than an application over the next dozen or so hours, as Agent Coulson darted in and out with lists of seemingly random twitters, facebook entries and blog articles for Joe to mark up for possible layered historical inferences and leads. Joe’s output was pathetically small in his own opinion, but Coulson seemed pleased at the progress, so he didn’t complain. Much.

“What about this one?” Coulson pointed at a pinterest page. “Is Galaga a myth, too? It sounds legendary.”

Joe laughed. “Galaga’s a video game. Way before your time, kid. Think Next Generation Space Invaders, with cooler aliens and faster ships. I used to play it at the Vet center, eons ago. You know, the dark ages. In the seventies. Before you were born.”

“Surely not,” Coulson answered politely, eyes twinkling. “I think I’m getting stale. I’m seeing Hydra everywhere,” he sighed, discarding the entry.

“When was the last time you ate?” Joe asked, staring at him expectantly.

Coulson took a few seconds too long to think. “Was it a sandwich? Was it your sandwich?”

“It was. About a half a day ago? Another half day, I go on a hunger strike. If you’re planning on feeding me on bread and water you’re going to have to bring me some bread.”

“Sorry, Joe. When they made this section off limits, our guest procedures broke down.”

“You mean when they locked down the brig?” Joe translated. “I heard more doors slam a while back. Not on my account, that’s apparent. Nobody here is scared of me. So you got Loki?”

“We got Loki. I’ll see about finding you better quarters and a decent meal--I’m hoping this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”

“In your dreams,” Joe retorted, but without sting. “Though you’re not half bad for an entrenched spy for the military industrial complex. You’ve got the Good Cop vibe down pat. I’d roll over and confess all my sins, but I wouldn’t want to send you back to Fury in a state of shock.”

Coulson laughed. “I shall introduce you to Tony Stark. I get the feeling the sparring will be epic. I’ll just sit back and take notes.”

“Flattery will get you a free beer. I’m easy. But a Captain of Industry is a little too rarified company for a Lance Corporal confined to the cooler,” Joe reminded. “Though I guess I should feel honored to be bunking in same brig as a semi-demigod like Loki,” Joe ruminated. “Fury’s idea?”

“Actually, our regular guest quarters are currently occupied by another new team. But I’ll talk to Colonel Fury about...” Before Coulson could finish the sentence, the carrier was rocked by a deep boom. The ship groaned and began to list. Coulson was out the door before the echo died. “Back soon, Joe!” he promised as the door clanged shut.

Joe was not partial to explosions. Memories he normally kept strapped down deep in his psyche tended to clamor for attention during fireworks. On edge, he donned his prostheses again, and made occasional circuits of the room to keep from stiffening up, until a second explosion and steeper list knocked him off his feet. The lights flickered, and went out. 

The space under the bunk made a mediocre foxhole, but that’s where Joe found himself when the ringing in his ears let up and the lizard part of his brain stopped hissing. “That’s what you get when you let the Army drive a perfectly good ship,” he complained to the hidden microphones. 

He wondered if they were being hit by missiles or mines. The thought of being locked in while the ship went down like the Arizona killed his mood completely. He did hear more smaller bangs and explosions, at a distance. But he didn’t hear the rush of seawater, or smell the tang of salt, which was small comfort for a short time. Strange, though, not to smell the sea at all on a ship at sea. And there were no alarms. No call to General Quarters. Despite Agent Coulson’s optimistic assurances, something was rotten on the good ship _Argus_.

Light footsteps passed, distant, closer, gone, pursued by something large and heavy. Without warning, his solid steel cell door bulged as something enormous tumbled violently down the gangway. The seam burst, letting in a gleam of light. Joe saw the flash of something green passing the cell door in the dull emergency lights in the corridor, then darkness descended again. Periodic pounding made the walls vibrate until finally fading away to the stern.

Shots. Those were definitely shots fired. Close enough to echo, too far away to smell the stench of gunpowder. Without thinking, Joe reached for his service M16, his hand closing on air. He clenched his fist. It had been a long time since he’d done that. 

More time passed, and the list grew more pronounced, but again, no water rushed in. Suddenly, very nearby, there was an anguished cry that curled Joe’s hackles. He strained to hear almost imagined voices beyond the door. The taste of the air changed, from steel to a sweet, sickly iron scent that Joe knew all too well. Blood.

Without warning, something uncoupled and swished open, very nearby. Joe’s ears popped as air sucked out the seam in the door until the pressure equalized. They still seemed watertight.

Again, the weak drone of voices, just beyond hearing. The conversation was brought to an end by an electrical whine that struck his straining ears like an icepick, followed by a cell-shaking blast. His ears rang so badly that he almost missed the announcement over the PA. “All hands to crash positions, immediately.”

Joe forced a breath out through clenched teeth. “Now he tells us.” 

He smelled more smoke, with an electrical tang, and imagined a spitting short circuit, or a burning transformer. There could be nothing good about smoke on a ship, no matter the size or the source of the fire. The smoke thinned, overcome by a sharp whiff of ozone. The scent of blood lingered. Crouched on the floor in the dark, he re-imagined the cell. No weapons. No fire extinguisher.

Finally, with a cranky whine, an engine began working again somewhere to port, or what Joe had arbitrarily designated as port, and the list lessened. Joe stood and felt his way across the uneven floor, intending to try to force the door. Using his hardwood cane as a lever, he leaned his whole upper body into the job. Somewhat to his dismay, the door swung open easily and he had to catch himself on the frame, to the grim amusement of Colonel Fury’s escort of guards gathered outside. 

Fury himself was merely grim. “Going somewhere?”

Joe squared himself, and pulled off his snappiest salute, managing not to knock himself over on the tilted deck. “Lance Corporal Dawson reporting for duty.” A proper drill instructor would have strung him up for the sarcastic tone. Then he’d catch hell for saluting in his civvies.

“Well, hurray for the Marines,” Fury shot back with even more bite. “Too bad the Corps didn’t make it out in time to keep Loki from getting away.”

“I guess there’s no percentage in pointing out the flaw in that argument,” Joe said, backing off. Grunts never won that battle with officers. “So. The situation was fubared. New assignment. Point the way, and I’ll start looking for Loki again.”

“Communications are out. Satlinks fried. Even if your little twitter scam worked twice in a row, we couldn’t run it.”

“Then put me on the ground,” Joe demanded.

“Will you find him?” Fury asked. Not can, but will.

“You can set Agent Coulson on me as a watchdog.”

“Agent Coulson is not available.”

Joe took in the stains on the corridor floor, the hole where the glass chamber had been, and the deep, deadly chill in Fury’s eyes. “Where’s Agent Coulson?” he asked.

“Agent Coulson is not available.” Fury turned on his heel, beckoning to one of his men. “Set the Lance Corporal up with a spyscope and call number. I do need eyes and ears on the ground, and I can’t spare any more good men on twits.”

Stung, Dawson fired back. “Trust me or throw me off the fantail. This half-assed recruiting scam is for amateurs.”

Fury whirled, pinning him with his one angry eye. “The fantail idea is appealing, and might do wonders for morale, but I’ll have to decline that option. It’s against regulations.” He brooded a moment longer. “I may not trust you, but Coulson did, and that earns you one pass. Just one.” With a quick underhand flick, he tossed Joe a cell phone. “Get your boots on the ground, Dawson.”

**************

“Joe? Are you okay?”

Joe kept his eyes on the approaches to Stark Tower, mentally marking down characters and vehicles that didn’t seem to fit. The afternoon sun lit the Central Cafe’s sidewalk tables, but he sat in the shadows, pulling his coat around him against the spring chill.

“Joe?” Methos repeated, sliding into the chair next to him, eyes darting about the crowd before again settling on his companion.

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“Fine. Good. I’m fine, too,” Methos said carefully. Mirroring Joe’s posture, he studied the passersby as well. “How was the helicopter tour?”

“Not my finest hour,” Joe admitted, exhaling slowly. He pinched the bridge of his nose, letting his eyes rest a few seconds. “But I think you can cut me loose safely for now. Fury has other fish to fry than Watchers and their peccadillos. That is, if you were honest about Thor and Loki not playing the Game.”

“Honest as the night is long,” Methos promised. “Asgardians aren’t even kissing cousins. We can barely feel each other. Just an occasional change in pitch in the background noise of humanity. Like listening to traffic on a distant highway. Thor was a Veyron in a pack of Volkswagens.”

“Is that what I sound like? A Beetle?” Joe asked, a little bit dismayed.

“You, Joe? Never. You project. Loud and throaty, like a little red Corvette,” Methos said magnanimously.

“Now I know you’re full of shit, and everything is almost back to normal.”

Methos lost his smile. “Loki isn’t normal. If SHIELD is toying with him, they’re out of their depth. And I, for one, don’t want to stick around to see the body count.” 

“Then you’re off the hook. Good time for a vacation. Send a postcard.” Joe pulled out Fury’s phone, and turned it on. “Typical. Still going to voice mail.” Quickly he rapped out a report. “More unmarked vans in a convoy, going north toward the Stark Tower. An even dozen in the last hour.”

“Forward operating post or artillery observer, Joe?” Methos asked acidly. “Here, you might need this as a backup.” He slid across Joe’s Iphone. 

Joe snatched it up and assaulted it with a storm of texts. “Yep. Watchers concur it is probably Loki up in the tower, partying in Stark’s pad. If Fury would just answer his damn phone!” he snarled into a final voicemail.

“Now, can we blow this pop stand?” Methos asked, plaintive.

Punching the off button, Joe met Methos’ eyes squarely for the first time. “You shouldn’t have come back for me. But I’m glad you did. Thanks, man. But what are you still doing here?” he asked.

“Do you know what I went through, waiting for you these last two days? I spent all night and most of today watching for you over a shawarma shop! I’ll never get the smell of spiced goat out of my coat,” Methos sulked. “I feel jilted.”

“Take it easy. I’m just holding down the fort for a few more hours. Literally, I’m phoning this job in. There’s nothing to it. But I still want to see what happens. This Loki character has SHIELD running scared, and that should scare the hell out of all of us.”

Methos’ face twisted into something resembling pain. Or indigestion.

“What now?” Joe demanded.

“I’m trying to channel my inner MacLeod.”

“Well, don’t hurt yourself. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

With that settled, Joe went back to watching the Stark Tower, and Methos went back to watching Joe. 

******

The shadows lengthened as the early afternoon sun dipped behind the surrounding buildings. Joe turned up his collar, but kept the watch, pulling the scope out more often. “There’s some sort of glowing gadget up there on Stark’s roof.”

“Stark builds gadgets in his sleep, according to People Magazine. He has gadgets building gadgets. Thirsty, Joe?” Methos hinted mightily as the waitress gave them the eye.

“Sorry, they forgot to give back my wallet,” Joe said absently, as he focused on the top of Stark Tower. “Rain check?”

Affronted for Joe’s sake, Methos broke with tradition and ordered victuals while the afternoon watch stretched on. Roles reversed, he plied Joe with beer for details. “Where did they take you, Joe? Camp David? Cheyenne Mountain? The United Nations?”

“Try a giant hovering invisible amphibious aircraft carrier named _Argus_.” Joe stole a quick look in his spy scope. “There’s someone roaming the roof up there building something shiny,” he muttered into the phone.

“ _Argus_? You’re kidding.” Apparently the flying invisible aircraft carrier was less of a surprise to Methos than the arcane name.

“Cross my heart. Which damn near stopped ticking when I got out on deck and saw the monstrosity wasn’t bravely breasting the salty brine. We were few thousand feet over Lakehurst, New Jersey, of all places, with two smoking turbines and holes you could drive a train through. There has to be an FAA rule against that,” Joe finally wound down, happy to get that particular gripe off his chest. “Anyway, the spy guys go ahead and name their headquarters after a mythic, hundred-eyed giant who could see in all directions. But they don’t see Loki’s sneak attack coming. Go figure.” 

“Presumptuous of them. Besides, the original Argus was supposed to spend all his time watching a nymph,” Methos made a suggestive and culturally inappropriate curving motion with his hands. “Quite the looker, was Io the nymph.”

Joe batted his hands down. “Stop that. No nymph jokes.”

“Why not? It was true. I’ll show you the amphorae. As you may have heard, Zeus had a wandering eye, and Hera was the jealous sort. Like Hesiod said, Hera imprisoned Io, and ‘... set a watcher upon her, great and strong Argus, who with four eyes looks every way. And the goddess stirred in him unwearying strength: sleep never fell upon his eyes; but he kept sure watch always.’ That kind of hubris will get you into trouble with the old gods every time. Mark my words, Joe.”

“Consider them marked,” Joe agreed, thoughtfully recording the quote for posterity on his Iphone. “Say, if Thor’s a Bugatti Veyron, what’s Tony Stark sound like?” He pointed upward at an incoming contrail snaking through the skyscrapers.

“Trouble. That’s what he sounds like. And what did I say about looking up and pointing? Tourist.” Methos snatched up the scope and followed the trail, while Joe tried to take a picture of Stark hovering over the tower on the Iphone. He managed to kick in the video just as a blue ball of energy expanded and walloped the man in the red and gold suit in mid-air. The sound of the impact rolled down the skyscraper canyons like a sonic boom, startling the cafe diners on the sidewalk.

“Ouch. That had to hurt,” Methos clinically observed. “Okay, show’s over, let’s go.”

“I’ve got to get closer,” Joe contradicted, reclaiming the scope. “See? Check out the guy with the horns. Nice threads, do you think he knows Amanda’s tailor?” Joe interrupted himself to make a brief voicemail entry, “Confirmed sighting on Loki.” He did a double-take through the scope. “And what the hell is Stark doing? Surrendering? He’s taking off the armor. They’ve gone inside. Together.”

“Get me closer,” Fury’s phone barked, startling them both. “I need to know what’s going on.” Joe started to push himself up.

“Take it easy, Joe,” Methos countermanded, reaching out and anchoring the phone on the tabletop. “The sky is not falling.”

“Sez who?” Fury demanded through the tiny speaker, his tiny head on the smartphone screen still managing ‘fearsome’ to an impressive degree.

“Sez Cocky Locky.” Methos was not easy to impress. With a stab of his finger, he cut Fury off. “Time to ‘fess up, Joe. You haven’t been acting like yourself since you got back. You don’t work like this, in broad daylight, pointing in public, broadcasting over open networks on borrowed cell phones. It’s...unprofessional, that’s what it is!”

“It’s government work, you mean?” Joe supplied helpfully.

“Yes! That’s it. Government work. But you would never sell out the Watchers,” Methos said with a surprising air of conviction. “Not to Fury.”

“Why not?” Joe asked. “I’ve broken with the Watchers in the past. For MacLeod. Even for Amanda. You were there.”

“That’s different. SHIELD is different.”

“Would it make a difference to you if I said I was drafted?” Joe said without a trace of humor, doing his best to ignore the crawling resurgence of his sense of shame. “Fury made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“I don’t believe you.” Methos stood up, suddenly as angry as Joe had ever seen him, as if Joe had betrayed him personally, instead of the Watchers. He clenched the cell and activated it again. “Contracts made under duress are not binding,” he stated formally. “Whatever agreement you made to tie Joe to SHIELD is void. No matter what you promised him.”

“Are you sure, Methos?” dragging out his name, Fury arched the brow over his one good eye. “I see Joe didn’t tell you. I promised him a free pass...for you. Free and clear.”

Methos was left without words. But not without actions. He drew back his arm, intending to throw the cell into the path of the city traffic passing just yards away.

“No.” With a surprisingly strong grip, Joe stopped Methos’ hand cold. “We need him.”

“Why?” Methos asked, responding to the voice of the old Joe, the true Joe, the one who couldn’t lie to him.

“Because, Cocky Locky,” Joe said simply, “The sky is falling.”

Joe pointed upward, where a blinding blue light blazed upward from the top of the Stark Tower, blowing a huge hole in the sky. Plucking the cell from Methos’ now lax hand, Joe pointed the video pickup straight up, and started doing color commentary in a steady and even voice. “We’ve got incoming, Fury. Missiles? No. These are manned. Armored flying cavalry? There’s your Iron Man. Guess he’s on our side after all. He just needed a new set of bulletproof bvds. He’s tearing into the vanguard.”

“There’s too many of them. We need to find cover,” Methos said, regearing to the new threat, assessing the invasion force and doing the math. “The whole city needs to find cover,” he amended, as a new wave of invaders burst through the hole in the sky.

“Just like Galaga,” Joe murmured to himself, his focus so intent on the scope and aiming the vidcam that he nearly lost his balance. Methos automatically steadied him by the shoulders.

“What?” Fury asked sharply.

“Just something Coulson showed me in the data streams. There were all these references to Galaga, the space invasion game. Average fanboy entries. Or, maybe not. Coulson seemed to have good instincts.”

“The best. You keep talking, we need the intel,” Fury ordered. “I have some trash to clean up here. There’s another team coming online, soon. Don’t get in their way.”

“Don’t let us keep you from your housekeeping,” Methos said sourly to an empty screen.

Joe was already deep into giving out a steady stream of numbers, deployments, and assessments of the limited success of Tony Stark’s attempt to single-handedly stop an army. He took a deep breath. “There’s a second wave. It is getting through.”

“They’re fast. And I think they’re targeting the city’s main arteries around the Tower,” Methos chipped in as small explosions started to track up the elevated boulevard, stopping taxis in their tracks and crippling any possible speedy overland troop movement into the area. “I think Loki is trying to create a kill zone around his new castle.”

“Methos?”

Joe’s deliberate use of his oldest name caught Methos’ full attention over and above the incoming barrage. “Yes, Joe?”

“I think we’d better find us a foxhole. Now.”

*******

They barely made it under cover inside the Central Cafe, slowed by Joe’s insistence they warn the shocked bystanders, not all of whom reacted until explosives actually started dropping in their midst. Methos unceremoniously dragged Joe in ahead of the final stampede, both of them hunching against the scatter of shrapnel from a near miss.

Methos would have dragged them deeper into the kitchens, where plumbing reinforced the walls, but Joe would have none of it. He pointed at Methos and using his stage voice, and announced to the crowd of refugees, “Dr. Adams here can see to any of your injuries.”

Methos was almost immediately mobbed by a knot of people with varying minor cuts and bruises. “Underhanded, Joe. Very underhanded. You’re learning bad habits in your new job.”

Joe flashed his first full grin since he returned. “I learned everything from you, buddy.”

Before Methos could frame a properly scathing rejoinder, their former waitress pointed and called out from the restaurant’s bay window, “Look! There’s Thor!”

Joe pushed Methos toward the wounded, while he soldiered on toward the window. “Duty calls.”

*******

“There’s a jet picking off bogies on Park...damn, there goes the façade on Grand Central Station. Is that one of your flyboys, Fury? You’re going to hear about that from the Beaux-Arts Society. Now it’s going up toward Stark’s Tower. Oops. Now it’s coming down from Stark’s Tower. Mayday situation.”

“Outcome?” Fury demanded.

Joe focused the video, following the jet’s ugly glide path down until it banked above them. “Turn. Turn,” he urged under his breath.

“Where’s it going down?” Fury snapped.

“On top of us,” Joe just managed to get out before the jet impacted with a sliding screech on the restaurant’s roof. He threw up his hands as the window exploded.

*******

Methos and the nice young restaurant waitress dragged Joe to the kitchen where Methos had set up his surgery. Between the two, they cleaned Joe up in record time, Methos dabbing some superglue and butterfly bandages, and the waitress wielding a handvac.

“There. Good as new,” Methos announced, noting but not mentioning the slight twitch Joe had developed when new explosions hit too closely. They were all getting twitchy.

Joe sighed, and held out his hand. “Come on. Ante up.”

Methos reluctantly pulled Fury’s phone from a deep inside pocket in his coat. “I guess amnesia was too much to hope for.”

******  
Joe was back at the window. It was much easier to see without the glass in the way.

“Look! It’s Captain America!” the waitress exclaimed, pointing toward the road. The waitress was becoming quite good at spotting the major players, if not identifying them all. “Buff Robin Hood and Leather Maid Marian are fighting them off!”

Joe let her do the color commentary for a while while he followed the action. It kept Fury quiet. They’d all gone quiet, really, after the giant flying armored pseudo-plesiosaur troop transport had gone by.

“We need a bigger building. This one was not designed to double as an airport runway,” Methos said from over his shoulder. “Your Captain America is a trouble magnet. An attention seeker if I ever saw one. But he’s right about one thing. It’s safer deep in those larger buildings and away from the windows. Right, Joe?”

Joe nodded, agreeing to the truth under the sarcasm. “These people might be safer at the bank across the way,” he noted. “Reinforced.”

“Now. While there’s a lull.”

Joe and his native guide led the way while Methos shepherded stragglers and watched for aliens. The waitress was still rubbernecking for heroes when a flying wing of aliens started a new strafing run. “So much for a lull. Run!”

Joe and Methos ended up in the rear, Joe by necessity, Methos by choice. They had nearly made it to a concrete piling when an alien round caught Methos in the back as he shadowed Joe. Tugging Methos into the shadow of the support, Joe gave up on the bank and waited with Methos, standing guard over his body while the battle raged overhead.

******

“So that’s a Hulk,” Methos wheezed, as he and Joe dragged each other away from the collapsed wreck of the alien transport.

“Love to have him on my fantasy football team,” Joe said between breaths. “The Bears could sure use him this year.” Joe paused to update Fury. “More flying worms coming. Two...Three. Hey, Fury, you have any more Hulks up your sleeve? You’re going to need them, at this rate.”

“Let’s get to the bank before they invite the rest to party here,” Methos suggested. He straightened as he healed, and stretched. Bending, he picked up a stray arrow and showed it to Joe. “Nice workmanship. Excellent fletching. Superb balance. Utterly mad. Who brings a bow and arrow to a raygun fight?”

“Says the guy who never goes anywhere without his pet sword,” Joe said under his breath.

“What was that?” Methos asked.

“Nothing.”

******

“Look out!” Joe warned as they passed the alley entrance.

The sword was in Methos’ hand faster than thought, and already creasing the air in a full stroke by the time Joe’s warning started to echo. The alien’s head bounced in one direction with a metallic thump, and his energy weapon bounced the opposite way, landing at Joe’s feet.

“Careful, Joe,” Methos warned, even as he engaged another armored warrior. “You don’t know what that is or where it’s been.”

“Well, if it has a safety, I can’t find it.” Joe peered into various orifices, then methodically started transmitting video of the weapon to SHIELD.

“Then maybe you’d better lose it. I don’t trust things that glow without a perfectly good magical explanation,” Methos chided.

You sound like my mother,” Joe grumbled.

Just then, the alien’s partner turned the corner out of the alley, ready and loaded for bear, safety setting not an issue.

Joe was nearer. Instinctively, he swung the alien rifle around in a quick arc and bounced it off the ugly metal helmet.

Other than giving a slight shake of the head, the alien stood tall, apparently unfazed. His own weapon rose.

Methos shouldered in front of Joe, and swung his blade as it fired, catching Methos square in the chest. The alien staggered and fell, with nonreplaceable parts sheared away.

Methos started to topple.

“Dammit, stop dying on me!” Joe barked, catching Methos’ body as it sagged into him, leaking all over both of them. 

“When you stop trying to get yourself killed,” Methos snarled back.

*********

Joe and Methos made the bank on 42nd past Madison without any more deaths, temporary or permanent. Their favorite waitress greeted them at the door, hauling them in just before two burly security guards slammed it shut. The open foyer was jammed with escapees from the carnage outside. The lights were out, but natural light leaked in from the second story offices and mezzanine windows.

Methos surveyed the room with growing dismay, particularly the indefensible upper story windows. “This may have been a mistake, Joe. Big front door, but no easy back way out.”

“Believe me, brother, it’s been one long mistake of a day. At least the walls are thick. It will stand up to almost anything we’ve seen so far.”

“Remember what I said about famous last words?”

Ignoring Methos, Joe looked for accessibility signs. “I wonder if there’s a working elevator. I need to see outside.”

“Workaholic,” Methos sniffed. He set off to find a bathroom to clean up before one of the cops decided to arrest him. The bloody holes in his clothes were attracting too much attention, not all of it sympathetic. Maybe his sword was showing.

His thoughts turned to the near future. Find water, bring some to Joe. He should have packed some food from the restaurant while they had the chance. Maybe there was a vending machine here to break into. Work their way over to Central Park, back to his apartment, hole up.

A series of crashes defenestrated his planning, as a squad of aliens tore through the second floor windows like cotton candy. “Joe!” Methos called out.

“Here!” he answered back, his calm, steady voice cutting through the panicked background. “It’s called in. Help is on the way. The Guard is making its way in through the subways.” A small island of calm spread around Joe, easing the prickling feeling of panic for a few.

Not for Methos. He watched with growing disquiet as the aliens milled on the balcony over the crowd, as if not quite sure what to do with the situation, then spaced themselves out.

Methos eased to the door, motioning for quiet. Gathering the guards, he said quietly, “Open the doors, and get as many people away as silently as you can. It’s a trap in here. It’s safer in the subways.” Loki was a chariots of the gods kind of guy. He didn’t do subways. They weren’t on his radar.

With any luck...and there was another crash. More aliens?

“Look! It’s Captain America!” a familiar voice cried out on cue.

“Naturally,” Methos said to himself, carefully moving pods of people out the door quickly, while trying to avoid a panicked rush. “Quickly, now. Quietly. Calmly.”

A distant beeping sound niggled at his sense of self preservation. A countdown. A time bomb. Killing from a remove...the same patterns developed across cultures. Aliens with a timed explosive? Why?

Why not?

Captain America was creating such a ruckus that Methos stopped being careful about quiet or calm. Now it was all about quickly. And how quickly he could get Joe out.

He was nearly to the elevators when the side of the building blew out.

********

For the third time that day, Methos woke up with Joe standing over him, his own personal Argus, unsleeping and immovable. Looking up from his rather more comfortable, if undignified, position as a former corpse, Methos asked, “What’s wrong, Joe? You look like you lost your best friend.”

Really, Joe did have a sick look on his face. Methos scrambled up and started to check Joe for new leaks. He was relieved to find just a few new bruises. He was starting to run out of superglue.

“Joe? Do you hear me? What’s wrong?”

“I heard Fury. He said “nuke.”

“What?”

“Nuke. They’re sending a nuke. To take out the aliens.”

“Into the hole in the sky?” No. That would be too logical.

“Into Manhattan. This is ground zero. We have about three minutes.”

Methos closed his eyes for a precious ten seconds as five thousand years of perfectly good flight or fight instincts warred with the insane reality. “Stupid human tricks.”

“You got that right,” Joe concurred, starting to put away Fury’s phone, then just dropped it, shrugging with a peculiar ‘why bother’ expression.

Methos stood straight, slapped the dust off his hands, scooped up the phone and grabbed Joe’s elbow. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Where?” Joe asked, struggling slightly to keep up. “Why?” Methos was pleased to hear Joe’s voice still held real curiosity.

“You’re still on the job. You’re going to record this. And we’re going to make sure that Fury and the rest of his crew live with it for the rest of their lives.”

“You’re right. We are.” Joe sped up as much as he could, suddenly not willing to miss a second. “And us? We’re going to go out with one hell of a bang.”

*******

“I can’t believe Stark pulled it off. That turn before he hit his own Tower with the nuke was physically impossible,” Methos complained to Joe. “We should demand that Stark turn in his physics degree. Poseur.” They’d found a couple of surviving chairs in front of the Central Cafe, and more than a couple of unbroken beers from the back bar to refuel for a walk out of the battlezone. It would be weeks before taxis would cruise Madison Avenue again.

“Frankly, I don’t care how he did it. Bully for him. He deserves a parade. They all do.” Joe actually toasted the Stark Tower. “As long as Fury doesn’t order us to try and keep up with that damn flying suit anymore.”

“What do you mean, ‘us’? ” Methos said with deep, dark warning.

The warning bounced right off Joe. Unfortunately, it also somehow mystically drew Fury’s attention back to them. His phone rang almost six times before Joe deigned to pick it up. “Have I ever told you how much I hate fireworks?” he asked, opening another bottle for each of them.

“If you’re telling me what you’d prefer to have quoted on your tombstone, I’d say it was an excellent choice,” Fury answered. “Where is the video of Stark and the missile?”

“You mean the nuke. Still working on it. The internet traffic is murder. The cell towers are overloaded.”

“You mean you’re uploading raw footage of a nuclear strike on New York in the clear?” For the first time, Fury sounded just a very tiny bit panicked. For just a fraction of a second. “Shut it down. Now. And get out of New York. Very, very quietly. The last thing I need is a crusading mayor or DA picking you up as a material witness to the disaster, with home movies.”

“Whatever you say, Colonel Fury, sir,” Joe kept his temper by a gossamer thread.

“Joe. I’ll only say this once. The order wasn’t mine.”

“Very reassuring from our point of view as the rocket sailed overhead. Sir.”

Without a further word, Fury disconnected.

A thought struck Methos. “Doesn’t he want the phone back?” he asked with renewed suspicion.

“Alas, poor sim card, we hardly knew ye,” Joe lamented as he slid the now-fried phone across to Methos. “He downloaded a trojan while we talked. Want a high-tech skipping stone for your collection?”

“The footage is gone? All of it?” Methos searched Joe’s face for some reaction to losing all of his work--anger, sadness, cynicism. But all he found was a look of satisfaction for a job finished on time and under budget.

“Fury’s files are done. That’s his loss,” Joe said. His finger played idly with his own personal Iphone. “But my Watcher reports are just fine and dandy, thank you very much. I had a lot of time to run backups to the batcave while you were lazing about dead.”

“Just how big is the batcave, Joe?”

“Big. The batcave is very, very big.”

“Then we’re done? We’re out of here?”

“As far as I’m concerned, the heroes are done, Fury’s done, and we’re definitely crispy-fried done,” Joe said with heartfelt finality, levering himself up for one last push. Without thinking, he searched his pockets to pay the nonexistent tab. Joe came up walletless, instead finding one crisp ten dollar note. He placed it carefully on the table, uncapping the last full bottle of beer and using it to weigh down the bill. It fluttered in the late afternoon breeze. “Let’s blow this popstand before they figure which way we went.”

 

************  
Epilog  
************

“Are we AWOL yet?” Joe placed his feet carefully as he and Methos made their way east out of the war zone, both drunk on the leftover buzz of combat and lack of sleep. Except for some equally shell-shocked first responders, they had most of the streets to themselves. “Isn’t that Amanda’s favorite jewelry store?” Joe pointed. It’s tempered glass front was the only intact shop on the street.

“Favorite, as in most frequently burgled?” Methos enquired, then his expression changed. “Amanda! I almost forgot! She’s coming to town to help steal you from the clutches of SHIELD. She will be very annoyed to have missed all the fun. You’ll have to be extra nice to her, Joe.”

“Amanda?” Joe questioned, taken aback. “Do you have any idea how spectacularly bad an idea that sounds like? Amanda versus Nick Fury? Isn’t that one of the signs of the Apocalypse?”

“Hello, we just fought off an alien invasion lead by a Norse myth. And my plan sounds farfetched? Relax, Joe, it was only a notion. Plan C, as it were,” Methos lied. “This is better, anyway. Victory party! I’m buying!”

“Now _that_ sounds farfetched.” Joe was still trying to get over the harrowing thought of Amanda burgling SHIELD’s prize helicarrier. “There’s no way Amanda’s coming here. All the incoming traffic is blocked, and the airports are closed.”

“Newark’s open. We’ll meet her in Jersey.”

“Jersey?” Joe asked, perplexed.

“I’ve got just the place to hide out and let everyone simmer down,” Methos boasted as he and Joe picked their way past the damage on Madison and into the relatively clear paths of Central Park. “The roads are clear on the West Side, we’ll catch a taxi to Atlantic City.”

“Atlantic City?” Joe asked, not quite sharing his optimism. “On purpose?”

“I have a hot tub,” Methos wheedled. “I’ll tell you about the caldariums of Diocletian. We’ll drink your favorite Irish whisky and sing dirty sea chanteys. I think I still have a few stanzas you don’t know. How about the Lay of Galway Bay? Or the Much Married Maid of Yarmouth, who hid in her bodice a jar...”

“What the hell is that?” Joe interrupted, pointing at a thin laser-blue column of light dropping from the sky, mushrooming into an eldritch glow in a nearby glade of oaks. “More of Loki’s tricks?”

Cut off in mid-chantey, Methos went silent, his eyes shifting to search their surroundings while he maintained a loose-limbed stride, his head barely turning, before he focused totally on the circle of trees ahead.

“Oh, hell no,” Joe groaned. “I know that look. It isn’t. You aren’t.”

“It is,” Methos answered, as aggrieved as Joe, “And I am afraid I am.” He nodded ahead at a red-headed kid with his hair done up in a poorly disciplined pony tail, wearing a strange cross between a hippie wrap and wool overcoat. He’d stepped out of the glade near a curve in the path. He held an ancient but well sharpened claymore, the point moving from Methos, to Joe, to Methos, as if trying to decide who to target.

“Failed Jettators! Return my people to me, or die!”

“Just dandy. Mad as a hatter. What the hell is a jettator, I wonder?” Methos asked, puzzled and more than a little weary. “If it matters.”

“That looks like the MacLeod Clan sword,” Joe said, just as confused. “But it’s in Scotland.”

“Tell that to the guy carrying it, maybe he’ll catch the Blue Escalator back to where he came from,” Methos said sharply, pulling his own broad blade. The swords would be well matched in length and heft, but Methos had longer reach.

“Take Plan B again, buddy,” Joe urged, stepping forward to stand between Methos and the challenger with a friendly and mostly harmless smile. “Tried and true, right?”

“And you? Plan A? Because that worked out so well for you the last time?” Methos pointed out, easily eluding Joe’s grasp. “I’d rather take the challenge than explain to MacLeod, or worse, Amanda, that I let you be skewered by the Clan toothpick after surviving the nuking of New York.”

“Okay, that would be embarrassing,” Joe agreed on consideration. “But dammit, he looks like a teenager.”

“You know better than that, Joe,” Methos said, handing off his overcoat.

Joe did know, but it didn’t make him feel better. “Damn. Watch yourself,” he warned. 

Sensing confusion in his enemies, the strange Immortal forced the battle, advancing speedily with sword raised high.

Methos charged to meet the rushing immortal, not trusting Joe to have either the time or inclination to remove himself to a safe distance. They crashed together with a loud clang, blades locking above the guard.

“I am Quentin MacLeod! Prepare to die, oathbreaker!” the red-haired immortal shouted.

“Come again?” Methos said in surprise, and then ducked, barely evading a scalping swing as this unexpected MacLeod disengaged and attacked with undisciplined ferocity.

“Minion of Kortan!” the red-headed madman yelled.

“Mullet of Magenta!” Methos shot back, getting into the spirit.

“Mullet of... ,” Quentin paused, working out the answer. “Is that your title? Or a proper name? Declare yourself!” Then without waiting for an answer, he attacked again.

“I don’t even know you!” Methos protested, fending off strokes. “And I’m...”, Methos countered another swing, then declared definitively with a slightly mangled Scots accent, “...I’m Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod! An’ you’re no kin o’ mine!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Methos saw Joe cover his face with his hand. “Laughing is so not helping, here,” he complained, nearly missing a parry. Apparently both tireless and talkative, his opponent took another swing at his neck.

“Liar and imposter!” the challenger accused, with unfortunate accuracy. “Duncan is dead over six hundred years, and I wield the sword of the MacLeods with Connor’s blessing! Kortan’s evil will be ended!”

“A little help here, Joe? This gentleman seems to be a tad confused,” Methos asked, retreating again. “If any of the MacLeods had a red-headed stepchild, I’d think you’d notice.”

“I’d definitely notice,” Joe answered, starting to scroll through his own phone, still standing too close to the edged weaponry for comfort. “There’s nothing in Mac’s file. Nobody named Kortan.”

“Small miracle, that,”

“But there’s one entry from Sean Burns’ old files,” Joe amended. “It just says: ‘MacLeod dropped off orphan today. Named Quentin. In existential crisis.’ Doesn’t say if he meant MacLeod or the orphan.”

“Great.” Breathing heavily, Methos and his attacker paused at opposite ends of the clearing, swords drooping. “A MacLeod wanna-be fighting to redefine himself. Who knows, maybe they are related,” Methos said, in no way making it sound like a compliment.

“Or maybe he just dropped out of the sky. Been happening a lot, lately.” 

“No suggestions on what Sean used to turn Cousin Quentin off, is there, Joe?”

“An elephant tranquilizer?” Joe guessed.

“Try your tricks or poisons!” Quentin boasted. “They are useless against the quickenings I’ve gained. I’ll take your head, oathbreaker, and your henchman’s next!” Clearly believing his own press, Quentin geared up to charge again.

“Again with the oathbreaker. Doesn’t anyone know oaths went out of fashion when lawyers were invented?” Methos reasoned, sidestepping and countering. “Ow!” Methos swore in an older tongue, and something changed in his demeanor.

“Watch it, buddy, he’s fast. And he doesn’t stop.” Joe hissed in empathy as a bright spot of blood marred Methos’ jeans above the knee.

Sensing advantage, Quentin MacLeod rushed in again, bringing up his sword for a deathblow. But Methos overrode the pain in his slashed leg and pivoted, letting his opponent’s blade slide by harmlessly before he completed his turn and guided his own sword unhindered through a very final backswing. Quentin’s head rolled into the tall grass as his body thumped to the ground. 

Methos sunk to one knee beside the claymore, favoring the other knee as the injury knit. “Back up, Joe.”

“Methos?” Joe asked, concerned at the pained expression on his face.

“Joe. Please back up.”

There was a note in Methos’ voice that aroused Joe’s too long suppressed sense of self-preservation. He immediately turned and hiked for the treeline, looking right and left to make sure no one else stumbled on the quickening unawares.

He didn’t think to look up.

Joe did see Methos’ eyes widen as he hefted the claymore, and an invisible force wrenched the ancient blade upright. A bright bolt of cerulean blue shot into the clear skies, forking high above Central Park. One bolt of energy blazed it’s way to the Chrysler Building to be safely grounded, or so Joe fervently hoped. The other, to his horror, cracked with thunder as it struck the top floor of the Stark Tower.

“Uh oh. FYI: I don’t think this is what Fury had in mind when he said to quietly get out of town,” Joe mentioned to Methos, as he spied a tiny figure rising out of the rubble on the exposed skyscraper deck. He put away the Iphone and brought out the spyglass. “Thor looks mad as hell.”

“How can you tell?” Methos managed between smaller bolts and muscle tremors.

“I don’t know--something about the way he’s holding the hammer,” Joe filled in, as he checked again with the scope. “Is it over?” Without waiting for an answer, Joe moved closer, looking around for a way to quickly hide the body.

“Not...quite...” 

Another blue bolt split the sky, just as Thor sailed overhead, nailing the head of the flying hammer and stopping it dead in mid air. Thor sailed on a few yards more before plummeting to earth, his fall broken by a few deciduous branches and a shrubbery.

The hammer hovered on the pulse of blue energy, almost...preening. As the energy ebbed, it also sank to earth in an azure haze, landing squarely on the purported Sword of the MacLeods, crushing it to flinders in one last burst of blue technomagery.

Methos scrabbled backward from the blazing blue glow even as teasing tentacles of energy reached out toward him. 

Joe moved forward to try to help him up, but got caught up in the eldritch beauty of the display. Mesmerized, he moved toward the sparking, smoking hammer, one last questing tendril reaching out to wrap around his fingers and drawing his palm to the handle.

“Joe! Don’t play with blue fire! Didn’t your mother ever tell you?” Methos barked, struggling to his feet.

Coming to himself, Joe blinked and stopped, straightening. “Sorry. Got caught up in the moment, there,” he apologized, turning back to Methos. Who was staring, very intently, at the hammer swinging lightly from his hand.

And beyond Methos, hair askew and hands empty, stood Thor, the Thunder God, looking just a bit, just a very little bit, worried.

“Psst. Joe. I think the man wants his hammer back,” Methos whispered. He glanced meaningfully at the body still mostly hidden in the grass.

Joe braced himself on his cane against the uneven footing, and slowly made his way toward Thor. “My apologies,” Joe hesitated. How did a mere mortal address Thor, God of Thunder? Mr. Odinsson? Mr. Thunder? 

“You lifted the hammer,” Thor intoned, his deep voice ringing around the clearing.

“I guess you can’t touch this?” Joe said brightly, his answer influenced more by beer and exhaustion and a queer feeling of unnatural well-being than common sense. Seeing that Thor was growing a bit restive, he quickly held out the hammer, handle first. “No disrespect meant,” Joe murmured, as Thor gripped the hammer. It slipped away like quicksilver.

“None taken,” Thor said, inspecting the hammer carefully, before casting a weighing eye over Joe and his companion. “You must have been a mighty warrior in your prime,” Thor allowed, still somewhat mystified.

When the past tense fits, wear it, Joe thought to himself, quashing his pride. “Ah, no, maybe a mighty long time in the past, I warred.” Joe’s hand itched where he’d held the hammer. “I play music, some, too,” he added.

“Ah! A bard! That explains much. Mjölnir enjoys music. You are welcome at my table any time, Bard! Come with me now, we will celebrate at Stark’s Tower! We will make a tale of your feat!”

“What? Ah, no, at least, not today,” Joe protested. “We’ve got a mission, yet,” he added, appealing to Thor’s sense of duty. 

“A fallen comrade, struck down by the enemy,” Methos added from the cheap seats, converging on truth without actually intersecting, deliberately pointing out the body. Coming up on Joe’s shoulder, he guided him back away from the Thunder God and Mjölnir’s magnetic draw.

“Do I know you?” Thor ventured, tilting his head as he studied Methos. “Your mien looks familiar, but not your garb. Have we met?”

“We’ve quaffed,” Methos acknowledged.

“Enough with the quaffing,” Joe said under his breath. “We’ve got to find a way to see the departed properly home,” he added, gathering his wits and capturing an honest shred of decency.

“To Valhalla, or his preferred destination, of course,” Thor observed politely. “Do you need assistance?”

“No. Thank you. We’ve got help coming,” Joe swallowed dryly, pointing to the east, where a black helicopter approached.

Thor frowned. “Then I will leave you now. I’ve had my fill of SHIELD soldiers, for the nonce.”

“You and me both, buddy,” Joe agreed, heartfelt. Holding out his hand in farewell, he found himself enveloped in a massive bear hug.

“Remember, you are welcome at my table, whether for a day, or a year!” And with a practiced flip of the hammer, Thor launched into the sky, just as the helicopter touched down.

Caught between the copter and Mjölnir, Joe nearly went down in the backwash of two rotor washes, but Methos leapt forward to steady him, letting loose with both verbal barrels.

“How did you manage to get on the Stark Tower A-list, Joe? And what about Thor? He didn’t even remember me,” he carped. 

“He remembered your mien. I can put that in your chronicle.”

“You do realize that instead of quaffing with the stars, that quickening should have crispy-fried you. You _know_ better than to play with the blue fire.”

“I have no idea why it didn’t. It just seemed...friendly.”

“Is that your new boss?” Methos inquired as Colonel Fury himself leapt out of the helicopter and stalked toward them, leather coat whipping in the wind. “Is it true? Is he the same as the old boss?”

“The old boss once stood me up in a firing squad. Better not give Fury any ideas,” Joe said, resigned. “And remember, ‘Be all you can be’ takes on a whole new meaning in this outfit.”

“Your boss does look angry,” Methos allowed.

“That’s apparently his natural state. Don’t let it alarm you. Just be ready to run if he waves recruiting papers at you.”

“Lance Corporal Dawson, can’t you stay out of trouble for an hour?” Fury snapped, even while waving his escort over to take care of the body. Methos slunk over to fill out the body bag tag, leaving Joe in Fury’s direct line of fire. “Who was he?”

“Unknown,” Joe said slowly, as he watched Fury’s detachment carry the body bag to the helicopter, “He deserves to be buried honorably. He didn’t ask to be part of this war.”

“None of us did,” Fury said, observing an uncharacteristic moment of silence, standing at Joe’s shoulder while the helicopter was loaded. Then he immediately returned to business. “One of yours, or one of his?” he demanded, glancing over at Methos, who was caught without his cloak of invisibility.

“No one’s,” Joe answered shortly. “He was alone.”

“You know what I meant. Immortal or human?”

“They’re all human. Underneath all the weapons and talents, we’re all human. Captain America. Thor.” Joe shifted his gaze to Fury. “Even you. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

“Even Loki?” Fury needled.

“Loki didn’t try to nuke New York.”

“Speaking of Thor,” Fury changed the subject before being drawn into arguing over a philosophical abyss, “I thought you were on our side? What did Thor ever do to you?”

“What can I say? We didn’t invite him to visit the festivities,” Joe said, jaw jutting recklessly. “And we didn’t shoot him down.”

“On purpose,” Methos added under his breath, earning twin scowls from both Joe and Fury. 

“Frankly, I don’t care who. It’s the ‘how’ that I’m worried about,” Fury lowered his voice. “How?”

Methos kept quiet, his eyes locked on Joe.

“How?” Joe mustered every lesson that Methos ever taught him about lying with the truth, and said, “How should I know? There we were, just minding our own business, when, like a bolt out of the blue, this guy falls into our path. Never seen him before in my life. Next thing you know, blue lightning everywhere. Thor sensed it. It knocked Methos flying. And you see what it did to that poor guy.”

Fury studied Joe for a long, menacing minute. Then he shook his head, and pulled a wad of papers out of his jacket, and thrust them into Joe’s hand. “Here. You’re fired. Have a nice day.”

Joe stared down at the Ready Reserves recruitment paperwork, all stamped with a large, red “Rescinded” and the SHIELD logo. “I’m out?”

“I’m not keeping any clown around the helicarrier who can figure out how to knock Thor on his ass and not brag about it. Now beat it, before I change my mind.” Fury did look like a man who could shift his priorities at the drop of a cartridge clip.

“These papers are time stamped six hours ago,” Joe pointed out Fury’s duplicity in a fit of pent-up honesty. From the look on Fury’s face, the timing had perhaps been unwise.

“Would you like a promotion, instead?” Fury offered with a calculating gleam in his eye. “I need a new liaison with your Watchers. For a bunch of self-confessed antiquarians, the job has an alarmingly high turnover rate.”

“Imagine that,” Joe murmured, shaking his head, finally coming to something resembling his full senses. He reached into his tattered coat and drew out Fury’s fried cell phone, handing it over with no ceremony, and gave his answer. “Farewell, Colonel Fury.”

Fury nodded, pocketing the cell. “Don’t call me. I’ll call you.”

“What makes you think I’d be crazy enough to answer?”

“I don’t pick my teams out of a hat. When we need you, I expect you to come. Now beat it,” he said, cracking a wintry warning smile as he turned to reboard the helicopter. Joe watched as the rotor sped up. Fury stood in the open doorway for a long moment before briefly, very briefly, raising his hand in a salute. 

Methos hustled up, stuffed the papers into Joe’s pocket, and said, “You heard the man. Let us indeed beat it before he changes his mind. Besides, Amanda’s waiting. We’re going to have to ply her with large amounts of expensive champagne when she finds out she missed all the fun.” 

With that, he threw his arm around Joe’s shoulders, guiding him the long way past the men with the black helicopter, around the shrubbery, and on far and away down the garden path.

 

************************


End file.
